


philophobia

by LesPoly



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, BC there aren't enough of these fics i guess, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Fix-It of Sorts, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash, oh don't forget the
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-01-23 22:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21327529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LesPoly/pseuds/LesPoly
Summary: Richie had pulled a chair closer to the edge of his bed and just stared at him as he slept. It was fucking weird, but—he couldn’t look away. He didn’t want to. He just wanted to look at him, just wanted to see his chest go up and down as he took soft breaths—his eyelids twitch as he dreamed. It was a much much much much better view than the one he was forced to look at in the sewers.He just had to refrain from holding his hand.---Eddie recovers from the final battle against Pennywise while Richie deals with some unrequited feelings.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, The Losers Club - Relationship
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	philophobia

**Derry, Maine **

**August of 2016**

-

Richie could feel it. Almost picture it.

It was a ball of warm light, dancing and flickering like a firefly—all within Eddie’s chest. It was fain. Dimming and cooling fast. _'Too fast,'_ he thought. But still—it was there. It was _there, _and that was all that mattered.

From behind him, he heard Beverly tell him in a broken voice, “honey… honey, he’s dead.”

No… No, dead was cold. Dead was gone. He felt neither—he felt warmth—_presence_. He wasn’t dead. He _wasn’t_.

“We have to go, come on. Come on, Richie,” Beverly urged, trying to keep her voice as steady as possible.

“W-W-We have to go,” Bill said thickly.

“N-No. I can—I can feel it—I can feel _him.”_

Richie felt hands grab him. They started to pull him away. “Come on—”

_“No!”_ Richie bundled Eddie in his arms, clutching him tightly. Hysteria crawled up his neck like a cluster of spiders. “Can’t you_ feel_ it? I know you guys can fucking feel it. He’s still alive!”

“Richie, come on, this place is coming down. There’s nothing we can do to help him.” Beverly’s voice was less steady, less _sure_—she said the words but didn't believe in them. She felt it too, he knew it.

They were on the verge of understanding—of giving in—he had to keep trying. “We can’t just—_leave_ him. It’s too dark, and g-gross, and—”

Ben suddenly forced himself forward. He detached Richie from Eddie's body in one swift but gentle moment. Richie immediately went to jump back—gather Eddie back into his arms and die down there with him, but paused. He watched as Ben pressed down on Richie’s balled up jacket that was laying over Eddie’s wound and tied his own jacket tightly around his torso. He made sure to double knot it before hefting him onto his back.

Ben looked to the rest of them. “Go!” He shouted.

They all sputtered into action, Beverly taking off ahead with Bill right behind her as Mike and Richie lingered in the back to make sure Eddie didn’t slip off.

Richie barely could process the next sequence of events—everything was crumbling them around them as they ventured back up to the surface. He tripped a couple of times and each time he felt Mike grab the back of his shirt to keep him upright. The whole thing had Richie furiously blinking out the seemingly endless rain of dirt that fell into his eyes. Eventually, he just kept them closed and let Eddie's warmth guide him the rest of the way. 

He didn’t even know they were outside and halfway across the street until he felt a breeze of air hit him and heard the others start shouting to get into the car. He peeked—breath hitching as he saw it collapsing before his eyes. 

The house on 29 Neibolt street was completely leveled all within a matter of seconds.

Eddie was gonna be fine.

That was it—that was the only thought he let in his head—repeated it like a mantra. So what he had been speared straight through the chest? So what he’d been in surgery for the last six hours? So what if the doctors thought it would take a miracle? So fucking what? They just kicked the ass of a million-year-old child-eating demon clown; _this_ should be the easy part. Instead, Richie’s so terrified it feels like every organ in his body is rupturing simultaneously.

Yeah, sure, sometimes clowns kept him up at night and acknowledging his sexuality felt like the equivalent of swallowing glass—but sitting in the hospital waiting room—waiting to know whether or not your best friend was going to die because he sacrificed his stupid ass to save your stupid ass—was a hell not even Pennywise could conjure up.

He hadn’t spoken a word since Eddie went into surgery. No jokes. No weeps. No anything. The others had taken turns going back to the townhouse to shower and eat and whatnot, all expect for Richie. He sat there and planned to sit there until the doctor came back—even if he stunk up the whole hospital—even if he was coated head-to-toe in dirt, sweat, and Eddie’s dried blood. He had to—had to know he was gonna be okay. He owed him as much.

Owed him as much despite wanting nothing more than to leave Derry and never look back. He heard Ben mention something about forgetting everything again once they leave, and Richie doesn’t really know how to feel about that. On one hand, he’s grateful his brain’s going to erase every shitty memory of this stupid town; on the other, he’s scared.

It’s funny how the past twenty-seven years he’s lived his life without a single memory from his childhood and thought nothing of it—it didn’t even bother him. But his past two days have been nothing but memory upon memory and feeling upon feeling. He forgot how important those six losers used to be to him. Forgot how much they taught him. How they were the best people he ever met. How they’re the only people he’s ever loved. And now he was reminded that twenty-seven years ago he lost all of them. And he didn’t want to lose them again.

He had almost lost Eddie. 

When he came out of the deadlights—saw Eddie get skewered—he felt like _he_ got skewered too, straight through the heart. He’s sure that if Eddie had died, he would’ve died too… in a way, at least.

He’s sure because that’s what losing Stan felt like. It felt like a piece of his soul was severed. His childhood best friend had been taken from him before he could even remember his fucking name. So, for Stan, he has to be there for Eddie. Whether it’s when he pulls through or… when he doesn’t.

But Eddie was gonna be fine.

Eddie was gonna be fine. 

Yet… Richie wasn’t sure if that’s what the rest of them were thinking—_believing_. He knew he should’ve squashed that stupid, irrational voice in the back of his head, the one saying that the others didn’t think Eddie would make it. That they would pass out trying to hold their breath before the doctor gave them the good news. But there was a whirlwind of emotions in his head. Pieces of him flying all over the place. One second he was angry, another scared, another depressed—then sometimes everything all at once. His mental state was breaking, then rebuilding, then breaking again. He couldn’t slow down and take a breath of air—he could barely feel the hard plastic hospital chair under him. His mind was floating above his body, planning to touch back down only when Eddie’s fate was explicitly said.

But through the thick cloud—he could tell the others were hurting as much as him, and… could feel it… almost like it was resonating off of them. It was the only thing keeping him from lashing out every time one of them tried to convince him to shower, eat, stretch, sleep, or even move.

They were hurting, and it was Richie’s job as the club’s trash mouth to make ‘em laugh. To clear the air of nerves and sooth all negative aura his friends exhibited with dumb jokes and corny voices. Talking was part of his charm, after all. Humor was the quickest and easiest way to bring joy, after all. Richie wasn’t good for much else, after all.

_‘Knock ‘em dead, Rich, but not too dead or else you won’t have any friends left—or else you won’t have anybody left.’ _

But he’d be no help; there’d be no knocking because Richie was already dead and the dead don’t knock. His jaw was already wired shut. His body was completely embalmed and ready for burial. _Grief_, he imagined, was the closest the living would get to being dead without needing to die.

Suddenly, Richie heard the sound of a door opening, his head perked up, searching for blue scrubs or a white lab coat.

He spotted white.

“Hey.” But it was just Ben. Ben and a greasy white paper bag.

From the bag, he pulled out four wrapped burgers and handed one to each of them, Richie last.

“Extra pickles, right?” Ben asked him, the corner of his lips twitched upward.

Richie mutely nodded and took the burger. He took it because he knew Ben would argue with him on it, and Richie was in no mood or state to argue. He also knew that this was how Ben coped. Food. He’d always been an emotional eater. And giving. Ben was such a giver. Always building them things. Getting them things. So, if Richie took the burger, Ben would sleep easier that night.

But taking the burger was half the battle. Richie was in no mood to eat. He hadn’t exactly been hungry since the Chinese restaurant. You know, being pursued by an evil flesh and soul-devouring clown, kind of killed an appetite. And watching someone get stabbed through the chest _also_ kind of killed an appetite. So, the very idea of taking even the tiniest bite made his stomach churn.

He unwrapped the burger slowly. It was still warm, so points to Ben for that. He closed his eyes, took a small bite. Regretted it. Then wrapped the burger back up and placed it on the empty chair next to him.

“You’re not gonna eat?” Beverly’s voice came from the other side of him. He shook his head. She frowned. “Are you sure? We’ve been here a long time.”

Richie just shrugged, inhaling and exhaling deeply. Here it comes—the pity, the convincing, the argument.

Bev rested her head on his shoulder, taking his hand into hers. He tensed under her touch but didn’t pull away. He relished in the fact she was grounding him. It was like she was a kid and he was a balloon—she was holding tightly in her fist to keep it from floating up into the sky and disappearing forever beyond the clouds.

“Hate to be a broken record but you need to shower, Rich. Eat, too,” she said, managing a mixture of causal and heartfelt. Richie could appreciate that she left out pity. “I know it feels wrong to take care of yourself while Eddie’s… hurt, but I don’t think the nurses are going to let you in the room like this. I don’t think, _Eds_, is going to let you in the room like this.”

She was right. Richie could even picture it: them walking into Eddie’s room as he laid unconscious in the bed hooked up to several machines. Richie walking in last, getting about five steps in when Eddie suddenly sits up—points directly at him and says, “don’t you fucking dare.” Then, Richie gets a long lecture on how fucking disgusting he is for sitting in filth for so long and how big of a moron he was for thinking he could _contaminate_ Eddie’s hospital room with gross sewer germs.

Richie closed his eyes and shook his head, a small grin betraying him. “He’d have a cow,” he croaked, mouth and lips dry, the first words he’s said in hours.

“A cow? He’d have the whole farm,” Mike said, sitting in a chair across from them.

He almost wished he could have that moment. He wouldn’t care at this point if the first words out of Eddie’s mouth once he saw him again were spent on telling him off—so long as he got to see him again.

Richie knew that he wasn’t doing him good—doing _any_ of them good, sitting there in self-pity. He knew he was hurting them, making them worry about _him_ while _Eddie_ was the one who got turned into a human shish kabob. He felt stupid. He felt like he was wronging everyone at every turn. It was like he was walking on a frozen lake, a crack already under his shoe, and each step just made it crack more and more. Eventually, he was going to fall in.

“I’m sorry,” he suddenly found himself saying. God, it wasn’t like him to be so… weak. Weak and teary-eyed and vulnerable. He hated it.

Beverly squeezed his hand. “Don’t be sorry, Hon. Nothing’s your fault.”

Maybe not—but it sure felt like it. It sure felt like he was paying for _something._

“Yeah, man,” Bill said, who was seated on the other side of Mike. “If it weren’t for you, Eddie wouldn’t have even made it out of the Well House. We would’ve—We… would’ve…” He trailed off, suddenly solemn.

“What Bill means to say,” Beverly said, lifting her head up to meet his eyes, “you did good back there. _You_ probably saved his life.”

Yeah, _‘probably.’_ He wasn’t dead yet, but who's to say what was going on beyond those hospital doors. Who's to say Eddie was pulling through. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe Richie only bought him a couple more hours. 

“Well, Ben was the one who got him out of there,” Richie said, looking to Ben.

Ben shrugged. “I… I thought he was gone. But something about what you said… just—I don’t know. It was weird.”

Richie raised a brow. Something about what he said?

_“Can’t you feel it? I know you guys can fucking feel it. He’s still alive!”_

Oh. Right. That _had_ been weird.

“I dunno,” Richie said, looking down at the white tiles. “I just… _knew_ he was still alive. Not in the hysterical denial sort of way—I _felt_ him. I just can’t explain it.”

“I felt it too,” Beverly admitted. “I didn’t want to think it was true. I didn’t want to get my hopes up and keep us from getting out of there… but a part of me _knew_, deep down. It makes no sense.”

“A lot of things don’t make sense in this town,” Mike said, “but for us specifically, I always thought we were different. Connected in more ways than just similar circumstances.”

“I think it’s the same reason why it had to be _us,”_ Bill said. “All of us, _together,_ against Pennywise.”

Beverly nodded. “We’re connected. Always been since we were kids.”

“That’s… I’m not gonna lie, really creepy,” Richie said, “like no offense, but full offense. I don’t wanna be soul-mated with you weirdos.”

“What? And you think we want to be soulmates with _you?”_ Bill asked, sporting a playful grin. 

“Hey! You wish your soul could get it on with my soul!” Richie retorted. “Too bad for you, Denbrough, but my soul’s already married to the night."

“Is that right?” Bill challenged, raising a brow. “Because I think your soul would be better off with the shower.”

Richie made an exaggerated gasp, pressing a hand to his chest.

Mike sneered. “Wowza! Big Bill gets off a good one,” he said, impersonating Richie.

Richie turned to Mike and made another exaggerated gasp. “Wow, man, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you guys were trying to tell me something.”

“We are,” Bill said.

Beverly patted him on the shoulder. “Only because we care.”

“Ugh, do I even smell _that_ bad?” Richie asked, nervously chuckling.

“Yes,” the four of them replied in unison.

“Wow,” Richie scoffed in fake-offense. “Fuck you guys, I guess.”

Bev rolled her eyes, squeezing his hand once more—reminding Richie she was still holding it.

“I’ll even drive you,” Ben offered. “Get you there and back—all within an hour. Promise.”

Richie sighed, unable to get over the sinking feeling in his stomach. “What if… What if something happens?”

“The rest of us will be here,” Bill said and… how could Richie _not_ believe him? This was _Big Bill_—Big Bill who’d beat the devil a million times again and again for his friends and—_God_—if he didn’t look so earnest then…

Richie got to his feet for the first time in hours, wiping his sweaty hand on his pants. “Okay, but the second something happens—”

“—We’ll let you know,” Mike said. “Don’t worry.”

He pointed firmly at him. “I’ll hold you to it.”

It didn’t occur to Richie just how fucking exhausted he was until he blinked, and suddenly, Ben was shaking his shoulder, telling him they were at the townhouse. Richie let out a loud, obnoxious yawn as he rubbed his eye and unbuckled the seatbelt.

“If you wanna take a nap, I won’t hold it against you,” Ben shut, turning off the engine. “You definitely need one.”

Richie waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t be ridiculous, Haystack. I’m like a racehorse—can go _alllll_ night if I have to.”

“Are you sure about that? You passed out before I even made it out of the hospital parking lot.”

Richie grabbed the door handle and said, “and I’m thankful you dodged all the potholes on the way here and didn’t wake me up—you’re so doting, Hanscom,” before opening the door and stepping out.

The two entered the townhouse, greeted by a very bored looking manager at the desk who barely gave them a glance as they headed to their rooms. Richie split away from Ben to go into his room.

He wasted no time getting undressed and stepping into the shower—which had been hell. He was constantly falling asleep, nearly slipping and cracking his head open on the tub each time he suddenly jostled awake. The warm water was too soothing, so he turned the knob to the right and froze his ass off. He skipped the shampoo… but made sure to use soap because this was _Eddie Kaspbrak_ and if Richie didn’t meet his bare minimum of expectations, he’d probably flat line. 

Once clean, he hurried out, briskly drying off before going into the bedroom to dig through his duffel bag. He grabbed the first shirt and pair of pants he touched.

As he was pulling his pants over his knees, his phone started ringing—from the bathroom, where he accidentally forgot to pull it out of his pocket. Richie flung himself over the bed and broke the sound barrier sprinting to the discarded pile of clothes.

“Hello?” He panted as soon as he hit the talk button.

_“When are you coming back?”_

Oh, God. That made his blood pressure shoot through the roof. “Why?! Did something happen? Wha-What did the doctor say?”

_“Doctor? What doctor? Look, Mohegan Sun called me back, they said they are willing to—”_

“—Wait, shit, _Ralph?”_

_“Yeah, hi. Forget about me during your little Maine adventure?”_

Richie groaned, running a hand over his face. Great, between the clown, the resurfacing childhood memories, and intruding gay thoughts—he forgot about his _job_.

_“You’re lucky they love ya there so much they’re willing to give you a few extra days. But just a few. You gotta hop on the next plane and come finish this tour.”_

Richie shook his head, wincing. “I can’t.”

_“Huh?”_

“I can’t, Ralph.” _‘I can’t leave this dumb town, I can’t leave them, I can’t leave _him.’ “I—Something happened. Something… big, and I can’t leave just yet.”

_“The fuck did ya do, Rich? You owe money or something; you said you were done with all that—”_

“No. No. A… close friend of mine is hurt, real bad, and… and I got to be here for him.”

_“What about the tour? What do I tell ‘em?”_

Richie sighed. “You cancel it and tell ‘em what you have to tell ‘em. I need a couple of days.”

_“You aren’t serious.”_

“Sorry, man.”

_“Cancelling your tour with six cities left? That’s gonna harm ya, Tozier. That’ll harm ya real bad.”_

“Look, full refunds—straight from my pocket if you have to.”

_“Richie—”_

“—Smell ya later, Ralph. You’re the best manager ever, remind me to give ya a raise when I get back, love you. Muah!” Richie hung up and let out a loud, exaggerated sigh.

Damn his job.

Well, okay, not really. He actually was a little disappointed about not getting to finish the tour.

Ever since he was young, humor was his go-to in all social situations. His sword. His shield. That’s not to imply he didn’t enjoy any of it. He loved making people smile. The satisfaction of someone laughing at a joke or voice he made was as addictive and dopamine-inducing as crack cocaine. But, humor tended to be double-edged. It could express who you are—but also _hide_ who you are.

People knew the name, knew the face, but nobody knew _Richie Tozier_. They thought they did. Thought every joke he told was his. Every routine. Every story. Every line. Every word. He wasn’t so much as a comedian as he was an actor. And that wasn’t exclusive to just his career. He’s been acting since he was a kid.

Growing up in Derry, Maine was different than growing up in any other town in America. Not because there was a chance you’d get eaten by a clown from the sewer, but because the town had an unspoken rule: do _not_, under any circumstances, be yourself. Or else, well, hopefully, you got fast legs and thick skin.

Richie learned this rule early on—_very_ early on. Long ago, he made sure to bury his true self. So long ago in fact, he could barely remember what that true self was even like.

Yeah, Richie Tozier was a comedian, but take that away and… what was left?

Richie’s not so sure that even _he_ could answer that. Nobody could. Not his dad or ma—not even his friends—not even…

_“Come on, Richie, can’t remember a line from your own show?”_

_“I don’t write my own material.”_

_“I knew it! I fucking knew it!”_

Richie tossed his phone onto the bed before rounding it, swiping his jeans off the floor, and tugging them on. If he wasn't going to lose his friend, he was going to lose his job. Possibly even both. Jesus Christ. Pennywise hadn't killed him, but all this stress was going to.

After getting ready, he headed over to Ben's room—and once stepping inside, he noticed that Ben’s room was looking more like _Ben and_ _Beverly's_ room. Beverly’s suitcase was on the ground, left open with clothes spilling out, looking like she had ransacked the thing. Which left Richie to guess that she dropped her stuff off in here when she came to take her shower, then rushed to get dressed and return to the hospital. 

He was happy for them; honestly, it was about time that they got it on. As kids, Ben’s feelings for Beverly had been so blatantly obvious that it was adorable but yet, very hard to watch those feelings not get reciprocated.  Still, Richie just couldn't help but feel a little... envious. No offense to Ben or Bev, but Richie_ also_ defeated the big bad villain. Where was _his_ girl to run off into the sunset and live happily ever after with? Unfair.

Speaking of Ben, the guy was spread out like a starfish on his bed, snoozing softly. Richie almost didn't want to wake him. Ben probably needed sleep as much as he did. Hell, all five of them were gonna need one big week-long slumber party or something. 

Richie patted his foot. “Yo, Haystack. Wakey—Wakey.”

Ben sharply inhaled, rapidly blinking as he looked around and sat up. “Oh, sorry… must’ve dozed off.”

“No problemo, Señor. You looked like you needed the beauty sleep—or well, _sleep_. You’re already a beauty enough.”

Ben cleared his throat and scooted to the edge of the bed. “All set?”

Richie nodded.

As Ben hopped off the bed and started exiting the room, Richie trailing behind, he asked, “so, Hanscom, you and Marsh, huh?”

Richie saw Ben flinch and grinned smugly, wishing he could see his face—probably beat red, he bet.

“Uh, well… I dunno…” Ben replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’re more focused on Eddie right now more than anything else.”

“Oh—don’t let the spaghetti-man cock-block you!” Richie said, waving a hand. “He’ll understand, trust me.”

“Richie…”

“No! No! I’m telling you! Eds will be excited when he wakes up to hear that you two are getting it on!”

Ben gave him a dubious stare over his shoulder. “I’m sure Eddie won’t want to hear about that.”

“Well, the juicy details, no. He’ll probably cream from just the rom-com  bits; he’s a total sap like that.”

“Alright, beep beep, trash-mouth,” Ben chuckled.

They got to the bottom of the stairs, and the desk manager gave them a courtesy glance. Ben pulled out the car keys. “Ready to head out?”

“As I’ll ever be—” Richie paused, catching the bar out of the corner of his eyes, “wait, hang on.”

Richie went up to the bar and reached over, pulling out the first bottle of beer he touched. Then, he returned to Ben’s side. “Okay. All set.”

Ben raised a brow as if to say, _‘really?’_

“What? It’s been a rough day, and I’m thirsty.”

“The hospital’s not gonna let you bring that in.”

“Oh, I know. I’m gonna down it all in the car,” Richie replied, brushing past Ben and heading out of the townhouse.

Richie spent the drive back nursing the bottle when they parked at the hospital, he had about a third left—which got drunken by Ben who had made “give me” motions at Richie as soon as he turned off the engine. Richie handed over the beer. Ben tipped the bottle vertically and swallowed every last drop before handing it back. 

“Don’t tell Beverly,” he said, pointing his finger at him. Then he nodded his head to the side. “Put it in the glove box.”

Richie blinked at him. “Wow. You drank that like water. Life of the party in college, weren’t cha, Hanscom?”

Ben averted his eyes and shook the bottle. “It’s like you said, rough day.”

“Mhm.” Richie took the bottle from him and opened the glove box but paused, raising a brow. “Ooh-la-la, not your first rodeo I see,” Richie said, using his free hand to pull out an empty bottle of whiskey from the glove box. “Didn’t strike me much of a drinker, Ben. ‘Specially with those abs.”

“I’m not—er—not really, I guess,” Ben said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… I just didn’t wanna drink in front of you guys or uh—Bev. I felt like I needed to seem… strong.”

“Nobody would’ve clocked you for drinking, man. We’re all adults here. We get it.”

But that didn’t seem to cheer him up much. He just shrugged, hanging his head, in what Richie considered to be, unnecessary shame. Richie left him be and turned to place both bottles into the glove box.

Being kind of tipsy, made the next two hours at the hospital more bearable. 

He’d been drooling on Beverly’s shoulder, drifting in and out of sleep when a doctor walked up to their group.

He cleared his throat, staring down at a file in his hands. “Uh… Kaspbrak… Edward?” He asked none of them in particular.

All five of them perked up, shooting to the edge of their seats, holding back from jumping up. “Yes?” Ben replied. 

“You’re the group that brought him in?”

They all nodded.

“Nice to meet all of you, I’m Doctor Handor. I’ll be overseeing Mr. Kaspbrak’s treatment.”

That sounded like he wasn’t dead. 

“How is he?!” Richie asked, fully awake now. 

Dr. Handor glanced up. “Well, the surgery was successful. We re-inflated his lung and stitched up a few severed arteries and veins. He lost over forty percent of his blood volume and was in hypovolemic shock when he got here, but fortunately, he responded to the transfusions and other treatments extremely well. We just transferred him to the ICU.”

A giant weight vanished from all of their shoulders. Richie sighed loudly, dropping his head into his hands. “Thank fuck,” he muttered into his palms. Beverly reached over to rub his back.

“Your friend is very lucky. I wasn’t sure he was going to pull through but he’s doing it. It’s quite the miracle.”

“So, he’s gonna be alright?” Beverly asked. A tear streamed down her face. Ben reached over and took her hand, squeezing it.

Dr. Handor nodded. “From here on out we’ll do everything we can, the rest is up to him.”

“Can we see him?” Richie asked. “Is he like, awake?”

“Yes, he is. I’m going to take you on over to the ICU. He’s in room 218. Although he’ll be a bit drowsy from the surgery and I have to warn you that we’ve got him hooked up to a lot of machines—it’ll be a scary sight, but I assure they’re all to help.”

“Thank you so much, Doctor,” Mike said as they each got to their feet.

As Dr. Handor led them down the hallway, Richie felt a hand on his shoulder. He glanced behind him to see Beverly, her eyes were glossy, and her cheeks were wet.

“How are you feeling?”

Richie swallowed, his hands twitched. “Don’t know. Nervous?”

“About what? You’re clean now, Eddie will be so happy,” she chuckled.

Richie, for the first time in his life, couldn’t find something to say. His heart was hammering in his chest. He’s been waiting hours for this, why did it feel like a meteor was about to hit earth instead of like… winning the lottery?

When they made it to the room, Dr. Handor led them inside, Richie fell to the back, letting everyone go in before him. His stomach turned to stone, and his brain drowned out every other sound except for his breathing and the beeping of machines.

He heard voices—drowned and muffled—before his eyes even got to land on the person in the bed—_Eddie’s _person.

The first thing his brain fully processed was wires. Red. Blue. Yellow. Black. White. Clear. So many wires. They littered the floor, trailing upward. His eyes followed them up the side of the bed, over the baby blue bedspread, and then… taped to skin—_Eddie’s_ skin.

Richie slowly moved his gaze onto where he laid in the bed. Once he saw his face, all reluctance and worriment died and suddenly—he couldn’t look at anything but him.

Eddie’s eyes, that had been looking around the room, met his for a second—a second that managed to feel like an eternity. The corner of Richie’s mouth twitched upward and he was overcome by the desire to march across the room and gather him into a hug. An apology… Eddie deserved an apology.

Richie almost gave it to him then and there, but Eddie had already looked away.

Eddie’s mouth moved and it took a bit for Richie to comprehend what he said—it took a bit for Richie’s brain to reconnect with reality.

“Holy shit, you guys look sad,” Eddie said. It was weak and horse and very slurred—but yet still music to Richie’s ears.

“Yeah…” Richie sniffed. “Betty White just died…”

Eddie gasped, seemingly distressed by the news. The others gave him unamused looks. Bill socked him in the stomach. 

“Betty White is fine, Eddie,” Mike said, moving to stand by his side. “Richie just doesn’t want to admit he was crying like a baby over you.”

“Objection!” Richie exclaimed, pointing. “That is a lie. Your honor, Mr. Hanlon, is feeding the jury false information! I demand an objection!”

“Overruled,” Ben said.

“Oh geez, I’m alive again for not even an hour, and Richie’s already doing stupid voices,” Eddie groaned. He lifted up his arm that had the IV attached. “Doctor, higher dosage, please. I have a headache.” He glared at Richie as he said the latter part.

“Awww, high Eddie knows how to get off a good one!” Richie said with a grin. “I’d be hurt if I wasn’t already so proud.”

Richie found it easy to joke again. Yes, there were some butterflies that still fluttered around in his stomach, but it helped that some of them were old ones. Ones that have been flying around as long as he knew Eddie Kaspbrak—it felt good to have them again.

It felt good to have Eddie again.

After the doctor let them know how things would work from there on out, they hung with Eddie until he fell asleep.

Richie had pulled a chair closer to the edge of his bed and just stared at him as he slept. It was fucking weird, but—he couldn’t look away. He didn’t want to. He just wanted to look at him, just wanted to see his chest go up and down as he took soft breaths—his eyelids twitch as he dreamed. It was a much much much much better view than the one he was forced to look at in the sewers.

He just had to refrain from holding his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapters are boooring. I wanted to put more but there's too much setting up to do and I'm already at like 5,000 words so... welp! 
> 
> Don't be afraid to let me know your thoughts! Every comment and kudos is appreciated. <3 
> 
> (Also, I will update tags as I go)
> 
> Thanks for reading~


End file.
